


Of Monsters and Men

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Good Hunting [6]
Category: Criminal Minds, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate (any), any, that sounds more like a Plan F; as in we're totally..." and the 2016 Shoobie Monster Fest.John Sheppard runs into the most frightening monsters yet.





	

The thing about North Carolina was that it was technically part of the South. Virginia was, too, but the southern accent wasn’t nearly as prevalent there (and what accent could be had in Virginia, John had gone to pretty great lengths to get rid of; college in California had helped). Unfortunately for everyone on Team Hunting (officially Project Orion), Vala adored the Southern accent, and she immediately began affecting it. It was like a switch flipped inside of her as soon as they crossed the Mason-Dixon line, and she wouldn’t let up with her drawl. Granted, she had a pretty good drawl, could have passed for a Southern belle, but she was chattering almost incessantly just to show off her accent.

After four days on the road, crammed together on the bus, John was ready to puncture his own eardrums for some blessed silence. As much as Lorne’s semi-omniscient, obsequious courtesy was sometimes frightening, John was pretty grateful when, three hours into the drive, Lorne presented him with a pair of noise-canceling headphones and an iPod loaded with Johnny Cash’s entire discography. It was poor form, however, to wear said headphones and listen to said music while the team was hashing out their next hunt over a meal in a diner.

The waitress had tried to give them a booth, but there were enough of them that they needed to push a couple of tables together for all of them to fit.

“Should we really be looking at these photos while we eat?” Miko asked.

Rodney had distributed tablets to everyone, photos from the various crime scenes uploaded.

“Eat something vegetarian,” Lorne said, patting her hand.

“Six bodies in six weeks.” Rodney tapped at his tablet. “The FBI’s sent in a team to investigate - serial killer, they think.”

“Witches can be serial killers if they’re harvesting parts from enough humans,” Sam offered.

“If the FBI’s already looking into the killings,” John said, “who are we going to pretend to be?”

“One of the victims was a soldier on leave from deployment in A-stan,” Dean said. “So we’re going in as Air Force OSI.”

John eyed Rodney. “No offense, Doc, but you don’t exactly scream ‘military’.”

“That’s why we have you,” Rodney said. “Lorne’s got uniforms for you, Sam, and Dean. You’ll keep your ranks, but Dean will be in the Air Force. Lorne’s got military IDs for you. Miko, Vala, Lorne, and I will be your civilian scientists.”

“...Right.” John glanced at Lorne, but he was sipping at his water delicately, perfectly at ease with them impersonating federal officers. Granted, he and Sam would be playing themselves, but still, this was terribly risky. If they were going up against the real FBI, the real FBI could run background checks on them, and they would be caught red-handed, flat-footed. It would be Leavenworth all over again. John wondered if Lorne resented not being able to play a soldier as well.

“We ran victimology,” Vala said, “Miko and I. There’s no connection between the victims - age, race, gender, socioeconomic status. It’s a big enough city that their paths occasionally intersect: one goes to the same gym as another, two of them attend the same church, but no single point of connection for all of them.”

“Then how do we know these murders are even connected?” Dean asked.

“Because each of them was found with the body parts of one of the others in their stomachs.” Miko wrinkled her nose.

And John understood why Miko had been dubious about discussing this case over dinner. Lorne’s recommendation that Miko order something vegetarian didn’t sound so silly. John thought longingly of his iPod and his shiny new headphones.

“It’s quite the macabre ring.” Vala tapped on one of the photos, and it went full-screen on everyone else’s tablet. “Victim number one had human fingers in his stomach. Victim number two had victim number one’s toes in her stomach, and all the way down to number six.”

“Has anyone else gone missing?” Lorne asked.

“Too many people. Raleigh’s not a small town.” Miko sighed. “That is one thing the victims had in common - they’re all low-risk. Lived alone. Socially isolated. Worked from home, or very independently. No one noticed they were missing until it was too late.”

“And the latest victim?” John asked.

“Lieutenant Brandon James,” Sam said. “On leave from A-stan. No family. Not that close with the other men in his unit, all things considered.”

Rodney scrubbed a hand over his face. “Lorne, what kind of magic requires this kind of ritual?”

“It’s not small-time, that’s for sure,” Lorne said. “We’re looking at summoning a greater demon, like Moloch or one of the others that posed as gods requiring human sacrifice. It requires pretty extensive knowledge of keys and sigils. Maybe also a strengthening ritual, to combine the strength of multiple lives in one person.”

“That’s just lazy.” Dean snorted and shook his head. “Why can’t they just go to the gym?”

“Not just physical strength - maybe intellectual prowess, or enhanced senses, or any number of things.” Lorne minimized the photo and poked around in his massive library of digitized lore tomes.

“So we’re looking for an experienced witch,” John said. “Someone older, then?”

“They may not look older, no. Someone powerful. And someone experienced at blending in.” Lorne smiled wryly at John. “There are spells for damn well near anything. Including looking young for a long, long time.”

The waitress, who’d looked positively pained at Vala’s incessant Southern accent, appeared with a pitcher of water. She topped up everyone’s glasses. Rodney started to reach for his, and Lorne’s eyes went wide.

“No!” He knocked Rodney’s hand aside.

The glass toppled over, and icy water spilled across the tables. Miko and Vala cried out and jumped back. Dean yowled when ice landed in his lap. Sam got away with surprising speed, perfectly dry.

“What the hell was that for?” Rodney demanded. He turned to the waitress and started to apologize, and Lorne said,

“There was lemon in the water.”

Rodney paused. “What?”

Lorne pointed to the pitcher. “Lemon. In the water.”

Rodney eyed the waitress. “I specifically told you, lemon-free water.”

The waitress, eyeing the shattered glass and dripping table and floor, sighed. “Look: no lemon.” She held up the pitcher.

“All you did was take the slice of lemon out of the water,” Lorne said flatly. “It’s not actually lemon-free water.”

“It is too,” the waitress protested.

“Rodney,” Vala said, “you’re getting hives.”

“Epi pen.” Miko immediately began patting herself down. She patted down Dean and Sam and Vala before Lorne produced an epi pen from somewhere inside his neat double-breasted peacoat and administered a dose to Rodney, who was also turning red and having trouble breathing.

“Should I call 911?” John asked. He helped Lorne settle Rodney onto a chair.

“Like the man said,” Lorne said, tone dangerously patient, “he needed his water and his food lemon-free. Miko, Vala, pack up, we’re going to find a place that takes Dr. McKay’s food allergy seriously. Sam, John, help me.”

 

*

“I’m fine,” Rodney protested, but he was sitting on the double bunk in the back, propped up on pillows, swaddled in blankets, and surrounded by just about every laptop the team owned. Miko had been fluffing his pillows compulsively, and Vala had tucked the blankets around him, and Lorne had fixed him thermoses of honey ginger tea, coffee, and chicken soup.

“I’m not dying,” Rodney said, but even Sam reached out, pressed a hand to his forehead.

“You don’t look great,” Dean said. “I mean, if I were your boss, I’d tell you to call in sick.”

“You can coordinate from here,” Sam said. “We’ll all have our bluetooth sets, it’ll be fine.”

“John’s in command out in the field.” Dean nudged him. “What d’you say, Major? Would you let Rodney into the field?”

John was discomfited by everyone looking at him, by Dean using his rank, because no one used his rank anymore, hadn’t used it in, well. A few weeks, at any rate. A few weeks that felt like a lifetime. But John was the ranking officer in this outfit, this quasi-military operation. He straightened up reflexively. He’d never taken the military as an institution seriously, but he’d taken it seriously as a job, as a way of conducting himself. He was an officer, dammit.

“I’m sorry, Dr. McKay. Captain Winchester’s right. You should stay grounded. Vala, stay with him.” Two birds, one stone. McKay taken care of, Vala’s irritating accent far away from John’s hearing range.

Vala started to pout, but John cast her a look, a look he hadn’t used in a long time, and it worked. She smoothed a hand over Rodney’s hair.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” she drawled. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Rodney’s expression turned panicked.

Sam cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said to John, “we’d better suit up and go.”

John felt like an impostor, pulling on his ABUs. They were his actual uniform, he was pretty sure, with his name on them, the appropriate rank. He was vastly overdue for a haircut. Sam looked comfortable in his uniform. Dean not so much. He tugged at his collar, squinted at his captain’s bars.

“Dad’s rolling over in his grave,” Dean complained. “It was bad enough when you up and joined the Chair Force. I’m carrying on the Winchester legacy as a marine. Semper Fi, Sammy.”

“It’s for the job,” Sam reminded him. “And the Winchester Legacy is the Men of Letters.”

“Whatever.” And then Dean got an unholy glint in his eye. “You have to call me sir.”

“Of course, Captain.” Sam cast John a look.

“Let’s roll out,” John said. 

*

They drove their inconspicuous dark sedan over to the crime scene, where local LEOs and several black government-issue SUVs were parked outside the yellow tape line.

John tapped his bluetooth as he slid out of the front passenger seat (Sam had driven) and scanned the crime scene. “Talk to me, Rodney, who’s in charge at this crime scene?”

“Detective Helena Durand,” Rodney said. “About six feet tall, black, looks like she could rip your face off.”

John spotted her at the same time as she spotted him. She rolled her eyes and sighed, ducked under the tape, started toward them. John straightened up, heard the others spill out of the car behind him, and had to trust that they would comport themselves as professionals.

“You from OSI?” Durand asked.

John nodded, offered a hand. “Major -”

“John Sheppard?”

John turned, startled. “Emily Prentiss?”

“Who’s Emily Prentiss?” Rodney demanded. Having Rodney in his ear was going to get weird, and fast.

There was a pause, and Vala said, “Special Agent Emily Prentiss, FBI’s BAU.”

John hadn’t seen Emily since that really embarrassing cotillion where their first dance had been awful, because John had been shorter than Emily but still required to lead, and Emily had been angry at her mother and was taking it out on John by stepping on his feet every chance she got.

At least Vala had dropped the accent.

“You two know each other?” Durand eyed Emily warily.

“We were raised in some of the same social circles,” Emily said. “What brings you here?”

“A dead Air Force Lieutenant. I’m Major Sheppard, now. With OSI.”

Emily smiled. “Well, it’s nice to see you again. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Are you the agent in charge?” John asked.

“Ah, no, that would be my unit chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.” Emily turned and beckoned to a man John also recognized. Aaron Hotchner. Had gone to law school with Dave.

Hotch ducked under the tape line, and Durand’s expression soured further.

“Is everything all right, Prentiss?” And then Hotch saw John. “Major Sheppard. It’s been a long time.”

“That it has,” John said.

“From OSI, then?” Hotch asked.

John nodded.

“How are Dave and Kathleen and the kids?”

“They’re well,” John said.

“Glad to hear it. What can the BAU do for OSI?”

“We’re not here to step on your toes,” John said. “I understand that there are multiple victims and only one of them was Air Force personnel, but it is our duty to investigate his death.”

Hotch glanced at Durand. “Detective?”

“It’s not like anymore alphabet soup will make things any worse,” Durand said.

“Is the body still here?” John asked.

Durand shook her head. “ME’s office already picked it up.”

John glanced over his shoulder. “Lieutenant, take Dr. Kusanagi over to the ME’s office.”

Hotch said, “A couple of my agents are headed over there now. They could share a ride.”

Sam caught John’s gaze, nodded.

“Thanks, Hotch. I appreciate it.” John smiled. Then he addressed Durand. “Detective, can my people take a look at the scene?”

Durand eyed Dean and Lorne. “Sure. Our CSIs took crime scene photos as well, if you’d like access to those.”

“That would be very helpful,” John said. He had no idea what the hell he was doing. Vala had, thankfully, triaged the comm lines, shut Rodney down unless he had to give them direct orders, because his babbling was distracting. John was basically channeling every police procedural he’d ever seen. He was a soldier, not an investigator.

Luckily for him, Dean and Lorne were trained investigators. They headed over to the tape line, checked in with the CSI, put on gloves and booties so as not to contaminate the scene.

Sam and Miko climbed into an SUV with an older, dark-haired man in a suit, career Fed, and a younger man, tall and slender with long hair that curled over his ears. He, like Lorne, dressed in what appeared to be his grandfather’s clothing, but he didn’t look nearly as sharp and put together. He looked...absent-minded, about his own body. John had no doubt that the BAU didn’t have the dregs of the Academy, that whatever the younger agent lacked in physical prowess he made up for in other ways.

Hotch introduced John to the rest of his team - Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan - and Morgan walked Dean and Lorne through his theory of the crime scene.

“Well?” Rodney demanded.

Lorne said, over comms but also seemingly aloud to Dean, “Best as I can tell, the body was posed very specifically, so that does speak to a ritualistic aspect of the killing. The body was fully clothed, so I’m guessing there’s no sexual component.”

“That’s what we thought,” Morgan agreed. “What we haven’t figured out yet is whether the ritualistic behavior is the result of a compulsion or is the point of the killing.”

“You mean is he killing because he needs to or is he doing something else he needs to kill for.” Dean’s expression was grim.

Morgan nodded. 

*

As it turned out, investigating crimes mostly meant wandering around, gathering information, and then staring at the information. The BAU had set up a war room back at Durand’s precinct, with photos tacked to the walls and a map that Agent Reid (also Dr. Reid) had drawn on, describing the unsub’s comfort zone. While the BAU agents and Durand discussed possible profiles, John and his team huddled in a corner, discussing possible rituals.

“Is there anything we’re missing?” John asked in a low voice. “Anything at all?” He knew Emily and Hotch were watching him closely. He hadn’t counted on running into anyone he knew outside the Air Force, and he felt like the pressure was double, to keep up the pretext. “Any way the victims could have been connected?”

“I got one thing from the ME,” Sam said. “All of the victims had smoke residue in their lungs from - get this - burnt sage.”

“So definitely a witch.” Dean shook his head. “I hate witches. They’re creepy.”

“Or it could be a serial killer with some witchy compulsions,” Miko pointed out.

“They’re running the human angle,” John said, nodding at Hotch and Durand. “We’re running the supernatural angle. One of us will get it right.”

Morgan, who’d stepped away from his team to take a phone call, raised his voice. “Hey, Garcia’s got something. Let me put you on speaker, babygirl.”

Babygirl? John raised his eyebrows, but he followed everyone else, and they crowded around the table and Morgan’s cell phone.

“Hey, sweetcheeks,” a woman said, and Durand looked startled. Hotch looked patiently amused. The rest of his team was unfazed.

“What have you found?” Reid asked.

“Well, O Genius Mine, I have discovered one way in which each of the victims is connected. It’s tenuous, but it’s better than nothing.” The woman had a bright voice, spoke quickly. Like Rodney when he was excited.

John wondered how Rodney was faring with Vala playing nursemaid for him.

“What’s the connection?” Durand pressed.

“All of them have food allergies. Different allergies, but food allergies all the same. Wheat gluten. Strawberries. Chocolate. Peanuts. Shellfish,” Garcia said.

“Did they have the same medical providers?” Lorne asked.

“Ooh, who’s that? I like his voice.”

“Focus, Garcia,” Hotch said warningly.

“Sorry, Boss. No, they didn’t all have the same medical providers, but all of them did, at different times, run internet searches on dining establishments in Raleigh that take food allergies seriously.” There was the sound of computer keys clacking in the background. “I am sending that list to you now.”

Emily glanced at her phone.

“Get that up on the screen if you can,” Hotch said.

Durand showed Emily how to use the projector, and there it was, a dozen restaurants that catered to specific food allergies or were allergy-sensitive.

“Chocolate allergy?” Jareau shook her head. “That’s awful.”

“We should divvy up every restaurant on the list and send people out to canvas,” Durand said.

John scanned the list. “No need,” he said.

Rossi raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

John pointed. “That there. Oma’s Country Kitchen. It’s cash only. Your hacker would have picked up if they’d used their cards at any of these joints.”

“I would have,” Garcia agreed.

“Who wants to go get some food?” Durand asked.

Hotch eyed his team, said, “Morgan, you go.”

Morgan nodded and scooped up his phone, took Garcia off speaker, bade her farewell with surprisingly sweet terms of endearment, genuine fondness. Were they dating?

“Lieutenant,” John said, “please accompany the good detective and Agent Morgan.”

Sam nodded and peeled away, followed Durand and Morgan out of the war room.

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Text message from Rodney. “I need to get this. Excuse me.” He ducked out of the war room and called Rodney.

“Vala and I have being doing the lore dive with the books Lorne pointed us to, and some other books, and so far we can’t find a specific ritual that requires this level of sacrifice. None of the kills coincide with any lunar or solar or other astronomical or meteorological events necessary for building magic,” Rodney said.

“Could it be some kind of customized spell?” John asked.

“Most customized spells are cobbled together from other spells,” Vala said. “Or they have a particular focus. I’m not Lorne, but I’ve been doing this for a while, and I cannot figure out what the spell is for. Only a very, very powerful witch could build a ritual from scratch. However, any original ritual would still be based on recognizable hermetic principles, and these killings aren’t.”

“Thanks,” John said. “Keep digging.” 

*

“Quite a crew you have,” Emily said. “I didn’t realize you’d gone military. Last I heard you were doing math at Stanford.”

“Joined ROTC while I was there.” John wasn’t sure what Lorne had done, but somehow he’d made the cop shop coffee bearable. Garcia and Vala were getting along like a house on fire (although Vala’s affected drawl was back) and were running background checks one everyone who worked or had worked at Oma’s Country Kitchen.

“How’s your wife?” Emily asked.

John blinked. “Ah -”

Emily glanced down at John’s left hand. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought my mother told me -”

“Nancy and I are divorced now,” John said.

“I’m so sorry. I’m bit out of touch with the old crowd.” Emily smiled apologetically.

“So am I.” John looked her up and down. “Last I heard, you were headed for Interpol. With all the languages you speak and -”

“I decided to stay local,” Emily said. “I was an analyst for a long time, so my linguistic skills didn’t languish.”

“Fair enough,” John said. He grasped for another line of conversation, and then he saw, over Emily’s shoulder, Hotch answer his cell phone. His brow furrowed, and he turned away, speaking softly.

Rodney’s voice exploded across the comms. “Houston, we have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Lorne asked. He was at the far end of the war room, ostensibly studying the geographical profile with Agent Reid.

“We can’t raise Sam on the comms,” Vala reported. “And the GPS signal on his phone was shut off.”

Hotch pocketed his cell phone. “We’ve lost communication with Detective Durand and Agent Morgan. Garcia’s trying to get them now, but -”

“My team just reported to me we lost communication with Lieutenant Winchester,” John said.

Hotch turned to Jareau. “Get Garcia on the line. I’ll talk to Durand’s superiors and see about getting officers dispatched to the scene.” He stepped out of the war room, and Jareau called Garcia, put her phone on speaker.

“Last signal on the GPS for Morgan and Durand’s phones is Oma’s Country Kitchen,” Garcia said. “But those went dark, and I’ve got nothing.”

Lorne leaned in. “Can you get Vala conferenced in as well? Two heads are better than one.”

“That’s a common misconception,” Rodney muttered.

“Three, then,” John said, and the rest of the BAU team blinked at him. He gestured to his bluetooth headset.

Vala, Rodney, and Garcia were all conferenced in on one call. Raleigh PD reported that the restaurant was shut down, and when one of them peeked into the window, they saw Morgan’s badge on the floor, so they’d entered the premises, and there were signs of a struggle. The restaurant had been closed earlier than its posted operating hours.

“I’ve managed to get GPS locations on all but five employees,” Garcia reported.

“Bet those five employees were the ones on duty tonight,” Rossi said.

“Get us addresses for those five employees,” Hotch ordered.

“Sending those now.”

Vala added, “I’ve researched property owned by all five missing employees as well. Sending coordinates for those.”

“If the unsubs feel pressure from law enforcement, they may escalate,” Reid said.

Escalate, he said. Kill sooner, he meant. John raised his eyebrows at Miko and Dean, nodded for them to work with Rossi and Reid. John beckoned to Lorne, and they ducked out of the war room.

“Is there any way you can find Sam? Some kind of tracking spell?” he asked.

Lorne took a deep breath. “If I had something of Sam’s - but tracking spells take time and space I don’t have, take ingredients that are hard to find.”

“What about Rodney and Vala? Could they help us?” John asked.

Lorne’s expression was both harried and thoughtful. “Maybe.”

John thought quickly. “Sam has demon blood, right?”

“...Yes.”

“Can we summon him like a demon? That’s easy, right? Just some blood and chanting.” John had read so much lore over the last few weeks he wasn’t sure what was real, what was true anymore.

“Maybe,” Lorne began, “but Dean’s not going to like that.”

They left Vala on the conference call with Garcia but drew Rodney away, fetched Miko and Dean as well.

John explained his Plan B.

Dean snarled. “That sounds more like a Plan F, as in we’re totally -”

“We can do it,” Lorne said. “And it’ll be fast.”

“That gets us Sam, but what about Morgan and Durand?” Miko asked.

“Sam can give us the location,” John said. He nodded at Lorne. “Do it.”

Summoning Sam Winchester was surprisingly easy. Lorne used a piece of chalk to draw a pentagram on the floor of an empty office, and everyone donated something to the circle. Dean donated his dog tags for his name. Miko donated Sam’s investigation notebook for his handwriting. John found a picture of Sam on his phone for Sam’s image. Lorne had a packet of tissue for something Sam touched. Dean also had a tiny pocket edition of The Hobbit, because Sam loved to read.

Lorne shed some blood, then chanted briefly in Latin.

“Sam’s not a demon,” Dean said in a low voice. “He’s immune to salt and holy water and devil’s traps -”

The air filled with sulfur, and Sam appeared. He had a bruise at his temple, blood dripping from his nose, looked dazed and shaken. His hands were tied behind his back. Dean cut his bonds, hauled him to his feet, hugged him.

“Sammy, you’re okay.”

“What happened?” Sam asked. “I was in the basement -”

“Basement of where?” John asked.

Sam took a deep breath. “The ringleader’s house. Katya. She’s Oma’s granddaughter. She’s a wannabe witch.” He continued to speak, stuttering, breathless and panicked.

John dispatched Lorne to take the information back to Hotch and the rest of the team. Miko hurried to clean up the chalk summoning circle.

“It worked,” Rodney murmured in John’s ear. “I can’t believe it worked.”

John saw how dazed and confused Sam still was, how bleak Dean’s expression was. What had he done, summoning Sam like this? Saved him from one thing, yes, but perhaps condemned him to something much longer-lasting.

John accompanied Hotch’s team for the raid on Katya’s house. He left Lorne, Miko, and Dean to keep an eye on Sam, coordinate with Vala over the phone. The entire time he was on the raid, Rodney was in his ear, whispering, murmuring about what he and Vala had found out from Garcia.

Ordinary humans, they were hunting. Witching wannabes who had no access to genuine lore, who used their beliefs as justifications to hurt others, or maybe wanted to hurt others and twisted what beliefs they could find as an excuse.

John strapped on a tac vest, drew his sidearm, and followed Emily Prentiss into the house. What a strange world it was, that he was fighting alongside one of his childhood acquaintances. They’d gone from chiffon and tulle and starched collars to steel and kevlar and kicking down doors.

What a strange world John lived in, that he knew monsters were real, but the real monsters were the humans.

“You all right?” Emily asked, later, while Durand and her people were booking the suspects, while Lorne was helping Reid dismantle the war room, Lorne complimenting Reid on his stylish sweater vests, while Sam and Dean were nowhere to be found and Miko, Vala, and Garcia were having a pleasant phone conference. The story was Rodney had made a breakthrough on Katya, discovered her online purchase of a book on cannibalism during the mass background search.

“Fine,” John said.

“You don’t usually handle serial killers, do you?” Emily eyed John sidelong.

“No, we usually don’t.”

“Would you go back to soldiering instead?”

John thought of being back in the cockpit of a fighter jet or a chopper, of breaking the sound barrier, of flying so fast he was one with the wind. He thought of the burning sands of Afghanistan, and his best friends’ mangled corpses. He thought of Rodney, huddled on the back bunk of the bus, miserable from a mere brush with lemon. He thought of Sam and Dean, brothers in arms and brothers in blood, close in a way John and Dave had never been. He thought of Miko, eternally bubbly and optimistic, holding a dying dragon in her arms. He thought of Lorne, paint-smeared, one eye missing, half-insane and doing magic that was literally out of this world. He thought of Vala, and how, when she wasn’t laughing or joking or flirting, she had the shadows of millennia in her eyes.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally.

Emily patted his shoulder. “Hope you figure it out soon.”

Back on the bus, John shed his uniform, pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and wondered what to do with himself. Write his report, most likely. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror before Dean pounded on the door and asked if he’d fallen in. John apologized, let Dean have his turn - Dean was eager to get out of his Air Force uniform - and headed into the back to check on Rodney.

Rodney was asleep, laptop on his chest with its glow fading, in screensaver mode. His headphones were down around his neck, and intricate piano music spilled into the air, tinny and intimidating.

“He doesn’t do well when he’s not in control,” Vala said.

John started. He hadn’t heard her approach.

“It was a long day for him, being patient, letting you be the soldier you already are, worrying about getting caught out by the FBI, worrying about Sam.” Vala smiled tiredly at John. “You acquitted yourself well on the field, Major. You’ll do just fine as part of this team.”

“What if I don’t want to be part of this team?” John asked.

“You don’t have to be,” Vala said. “There are ways, in this world, to get what you want. Ways that are neither evil nor magical.”

“You know those ways.” John studied her.

“I’ve been alive for millennia. I know ways most people have forgotten even existed.”

“So you stay.”

“I stay.”

“Why?”

“Because...this is my family now. And I don’t walk away from family.”

John had walked away from his family because they’d been pushing him away for years. He hadn’t walked away from his men voluntarily - but he couldn’t walk beside their coffins forever. “Thanks, Vala. You have some pretty mad hacking skills, by the way.”

“Dean Winchester is smarter than he likes to admit.” Vala winked. “Now go, rest. We’ll be on to the next hunt soon enough.”

John went and crawled into the lower of the middle bunks. He lay there, staring at the bottom of the bunk above him, and didn’t sleep for hours. Instead he listened to Johnny Cash and imagined walking through a burning ring of fire, or a devil’s trap, or across a long and dusty desert, or the archives of the Bunker until he found the keys to the gates of Atlantis.


End file.
